David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘That’s right. His brother’s king of Iberia. Mithradates got up his nose once too often and had to clear out in a hurry.’

I turned round, caught Ganymede’s eye and pointed to Nicanor’s cup. Ganymede nodded. ‘Where does he get his money from?’

‘Fuck knows. Not his brother, certainly. He’s not short of a gold piece or two, though, that’s for sure. Probably Tiridates subs him. He’s rich enough, and he follows Mithradates around like a pet dog.’

‘These Immortals ever get into trouble? Real trouble?’

‘You kidding?’ Nicanor laughed. ‘A Parthian prince, a prince’s son and one of the Iberian royals? No way! Or nothing they can’t buy their way out of without missing the cash. Besides, when he’s in Rome Prince Gaius is an honorary member. No one’s going to mess with him.’

My spine went cold. ‘Gaius?’

‘Sure. He’s chummed with them for years. Hand in glove.’

Oh, shit; this was a complication I didn’t need. If Gaius was a friend of Mithradates then I’d made a dangerous enemy. Seriously dangerous. It explained why he hadn’t been all that worried about possible repercussions, too. If he had Rome’s crown prince in his pocket then a complaint of assault to the praetor would be about as effective as a sunshade in an avalanche. That was one nugget of information I definitely wouldn’t be passing on to Perilla.

Ganymede came over with the fresh cup. I waited until he’d gone.

‘Just one more question, pal,’ I said, ‘and then I’ll leave you in peace. Tiridates ever say anything about wanting to be Great King?’

Nicanor snorted into his winecup so hard the wine splashed into his face. He mopped it off with the sleeve of his tunic ‘You obviously haven’t met many Parthian princes, Corvinus. Getting to be Great King is all he thinks about, twenty-four hours a day.’

‘What about Phraates?’

‘I told you. Tiridates despises him, calls him the Geriatric.’

Yeah. Right; that was more or less what I’d thought. And Nicanor had started up enough new hares to be going on with. I drank the last of my Caecuban and stood up. ‘Okay. Thanks for the chat, friend. Enjoy your evening.’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘You’re going?’

‘Sure. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘The place is just warming up. They’ve got some good entertainment booked.’

‘Uh…no. No, I have to get back home.’

Nicanor grinned. ‘You’re a real prude, underneath, aren’t you? Fair enough, suit yourself. I’ll see you around. If you want another chat sometime you know where to find me.’

‘Right. Right.’

On my way out I paid for the three cups of wine I’d ordered. What with the entrance money that left my belt-pouch pretty empty. Yeah, well, it’d been worth it; I didn’t know where Crispus had dug Nicanor up from, or why he’d chosen him, but I couldn’t’ve asked for a better choice.

I took the carriage home.

The next day was the start of the Augustalia.

Unlike in the Greek towns to the south, where they go in for that sort of thing, as a festival it’s never been all that popular at Rome, not where ordinary punters like me are concerned, anyway; scarcely surprising, because instead of the usual healthy Roman diet of racing meets and all-day sword-fights what you get at the Augustalia is a non-stop orgy of culture. Which was why instead of being happily out sleuthing or relaxing in a wineshop I spent the morning sitting through a lyre recital followed by readings from the Greek lyric poets before going home for a quick bath, a change of mantle and the trip out to Marcellus Theatre for Euripides’s bloody Medea .

I hate the Augustalia.

I grizzled like hell. Not that it had any effect.

‘I contracted for a play, lady,’ I said as we piled into the litter for the lyre concert. ‘Just a play. Where did these extras suddenly spring from?’

She kissed me. ‘Stop grumbling, dear. If I’d told you beforehand you would’ve made other arrangements, and you didn’t. You hardly ever go with me to these things. A bit of culture is good for you. Besides, it’ll give your mind a rest from murder and politics.’

Well, at least she was back to her feisty self after the wobbler of two days back. Still, ‘rest’ wasn’t exactly the term I would’ve used: by theatre time I’d had Alcaean glyconics up to the eyebrows, my brain was a wrung-out dishrag, and I was really, really looking forward to the Euripides: concert halls are tricky, sure, but you can sleep in a theatre.

Not that I was missing much because the big E’s Medea isn’t exactly a laugh a minute ( pace Perilla, it’s not entirely free of murder and politics, either, but that’s by the way). I woke up just after the screen had revolved to show the slaughtered kids and the queen getting ready to fly off in her dragon-chariot. Perfect timing, in other words. As we made our way towards the exit through the drift of nutshells and apple cores I was feeling pretty smug.

Not so Perilla.

‘Marcus, I’m ashamed of you!’ she snapped. ‘That was an extremely good production!’

‘Yeah. The effects were nice. I liked the effects. Especially the — ’

‘No one else in our row was sleeping! I looked!’

‘Yeah, well, maybe the poor buggers don’t have understanding wives.’ Smarm, smarm. ‘In any case — ’

Someone shouted my name. I looked down the rows, towards the VIP seats at the very front. An old man in a fancy embroidered mantle was waving to me. When he saw he’d got my attention he pointed towards the exit door on his level. I waved back and gave him the thumbs-up.

‘Who was that?’ Perilla said.

‘Prince Phraates. I think he wants us to meet him outside.’

She frowned. ‘Marcus, no! We are going straight home to dinner! You are not getting involved with — ’

‘Oh, come on, lady!’ I grinned. ‘I’ve had six solid hours of culture today, four of which I didn’t bargain for. You’re a weasel, and you owe me. Besides, the guy probably only wants to say hello.’

‘Corvinus, I will kill you!’

Before she could object any more I grabbed her arm and steered her to the exit. Sure enough, Phraates was waiting for us beside a snazzy carriage in the open space between the theatre and Apollo’s temple. How he’d arranged the carriage — it was just after sunset, and he would’ve had to get it there in violation of the bylaws — I didn’t know, but there it was. Parthian princes can get away with these things.

‘Ah, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Did you enjoy the play? What did you think of Jason? Wasn’t he superb?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, he was all right.’ Beside me, Perilla snorted. I ignored her.

‘And this must be your wife, Rufia Perilla.’ Phraates smiled at her and got a stare in return that was straight off a December Alp. Oops; this might be embarrassing. ‘You’re the poet Ovid’s stepdaughter, are you not, my dear? I had the honour of sitting next to him at a dinner party once. A very long time ago now, of course, but I’ve never forgotten. He was quite the most intelligent, civilised and humane man I had ever met. I’m delighted to make his daughter’s acquaintance.’

Gods! Talk about smarm! I glanced at Perilla. Forget the frozen stare: the lady was thawing so fast you could hear the crackle. ‘Ah…really?’ she said faintly.

Phraates gave her another smile and turned to me. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if you and your wife might care to join me for dinner tonight. Nothing special, but it would give us a chance to talk a little in private.’

Uh-oh. I shot Perilla a quick sideways glance. ‘Yeah, well, I’m afraid tonight’s a bit difficult. You see — ’